Some evergreen thoughts about humanity that feel newly relevant today

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

Even though they'll win most of the time.

Also, you're probably somebody's grinding bastard.

Memory: Baptism

My dad baptized me on Feb. 27, 1983 in the Emporia Church of Christ. It's funny that I remember the date so precisely, but it seemed at the time like it might be the most important thing in my life -- a marker signifying whether I would go to heaven or hell someday.

The baptism came at a Sunday night service. We always went to church twice on Sundays, and usually went on Wednesday nights as well. The preacher that Sunday night didn't do a sermon, as per usual -- he instead gave answers to presubmitted questions. One was about how young was too young to get baptized. I don't remember his answer. What I do remember is that at the end of it, my dad nudged me and asked: "Do you want to get baptized?"

I did. 

I had asked, in fact, to be baptized a few months before. It had been judged that I was not ready. (By the time this particular Sunday night occurred, I was about a month short of my tenth birthday.) But my grandmother, in particular, had queried me from time to time about theological questions -- a test, I think, of when and if I would be ready.

My dad had been a preacher in the Church of Christ -- we didn't call them pastors. (I'm not speaking here of the liberal United Church of Christ, by the way, but a more fundamentalist non-denomination that didn't believe in instrumental music or letting women speak in church.) He asked this congregation's preacher if we could go ahead after the service. The congregation, which had been ready to leave, retook their seats. Dad and I entered the baptismal together. And then, after a few words, he dunked me.

And as my head went under, my foot slipped up and out of the water.

This haunted me for awhile after. The Church of Christ believed in full-body immersion -- and I had not been fully immersed. It seemed to me that my foot shooting up above the surface in the moment of baptism might mean I had not really, truly been saved. That, without that immersion, I might end up in hell.

But I didn't tell anybody. Instead, I lived with the fear.

A few years after that, my family left the Church of Christ. We'd settled into a largely Mennonite small town. It took me a long time to not fear that we had made a terrible mistake. But over time, at least, I stopped being afraid that my foot was going to keep me from going to heaven.

I'm not feeling resilient

It's really cold in Lawrence, Kansas this week -- the temperature as I write this is 8 degrees Fahrenheit. As a result, I've been forced inside more than usual. Instead of spending an hour or two a day strolling along the Kansas River and chilling out, I've more or less been home all day. (I did make a trip to Sonic just to sit and read, but without the Vitamin D and physical activity, it's just not the same thing.)

So I'm having one of those moments where pandemic-induced isolation is driving me a little bit crazy. Feeling edgy, sad, tired, depressed. More than usual, I mean. We've been mostly isolated for nearly a year now. Haven't left town. Haven't seen my wife's parents. Haven't gotten to stand closer than six feet to my dad. 

I'm tired of this. I'm not feeling resilient.

Something I'm noticing....

 ...as I scan the headlines this morning is how normal the news seems. That's a relative term, of course, but there's a real difference between a president who tries to solve problems and a president who seems to go out of his way to create crises. 

Cooking while broken

There was a time about 10 years ago when I got excited about cooking -- I read a Mark Bittman book about why it's good to cook at home, and I was briefly converted. (A similar surge of interested happened a few years earlier when I read Michael Pollan's "The Omnivore's Dilemma.")

But it didn't take.

I try to practice my egalitarian preaching, though I probably fall short. My wife likes to cook -- or at least, she seems to, and she's very creative at it -- but I still try to cook a couple of nights a week. Usuallly it's something simple -- spaghetti, maybe, or chili. Maybe veggies thrown into a pan with a premade simmer sauce.

I sometimes miss doing more ambitious things, though. Today, while it's snowing outside, I tackled a recipe for slow-cooker cassoulet. Usually the slow-cooker works for my lazy man style of cooking -- just throw in stuff and turn the machine on. The cassoulet required a bit of prep, however: Chopping, browning, mixing.

You know, cooking stuff.

But I was reminded why I tend to shy away from this in the first place: My body remains broken from my surgeries (also about a decade ago at this point), and doing the physical job of cooking is ... exhausting. I solved the problem today by sitting for a lot of the prep. But my back still hurt quite a bit when it was all over.

I'm not asking for sympathy here. And I'm hesitant to use a word like "disabled." But ... I have less ability than I did. Some of that may be because I'm older, but a lot of it is is being broken. I can't -- and won't, ever again -- be able to do some things I used to do. And the things I do, physically, take a lot more out of me.

Like cooking.

Today, I found a solution. I need to keep looking for those kinds of solutions. I think I've let my brokeness keep me from living a full life over the years. But I only have this life. I don't want to spend it just staring at a screen.

Barry

I finished binging HBO’s Barry last night. I am utterly fascinated by Bill Hader. I think he’s magnificent. Just watching his face in the show, without any sound, would be entertainment all by itself. The way it goes flat when he’s trying to be a good guy, almost passive. The way his eyes get big and unblinking and his brow wrinkles when he becomes possessed by rage. Hader has fascinated me since I first saw him doing a Vincent Price impersonation on SNL, because who would do such a thing in the 21st century? He’s one of my favorite actors working today. 

Kansas Day

 

For Kansas Day, I share with you a family heirloom -- the seal of the State of Kansas, painted by a neighbor who lived across the street from us in the late 1970s. 

There are a couple of possessions that I have that are important to me for no other reason than nostalgia. One is this. Another is a little blue jar-slash-vase my mom kept a couple of pieces of jewelry in. And the last is a big, heavy manual typewriter that belonged to my grandfather.

When I die, those things won't have as much meaning to others as they do to me. And that makes me sad to think about, losing that meaning. But that's life, I guess. For now, they possess the meaning I give them.